


pyrotechnics

by startledstoat111



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Curtain Fic, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, That lost art haunts me, or:how it should have ended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startledstoat111/pseuds/startledstoat111
Summary: “Big day, huh?” Peter says, a little awkwardly.“Why?” Neal says, attempting nonchalance. “I mean, unless you’re firing me, and in that case I horrifically misjudged the atmosphere.“Or: how Neal Caffrey found himself a family, and decided that he'd done enough running for a lifetime.





	pyrotechnics

Neal dreamed of fire. Small conflagrations at first: the sizzle of alias’s; their plastic names and plastic smiles going up in smoke.

And then there was Kate, and everything that came with her: the fear, the fire, the way she was all at once the only thing that seemed real and as insubstantial as smoke, twisting into the air. She was the way Neal kept running; she was in herself the way she slipped between his fingers. But he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t: without her there would be nothing but pointless paint on canvas with no meaning behind the brushstrokes.

Then she burned, and Neal was burning too, white hot shards of glass in his bloodstream. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, there was only fire and pain and Peter: the only sane thing in this world gone mad. Neal thought he went a little mad as well for a while. 

And then there was prison, with the orange of fire and the blessed numbness of apathy. He didn’t think he’d have minded staying in that white-out world, where it didn’t hurt, and he was safe behind the bars that once restrained. Then there was Peter, pulling him back into the world; distracting him with puzzles, and though the fire returned, light came too: coffee with June, Elizabeth’s dinner’s, the way Peter would smile when they shared a moment of brilliance. 

A whole new fire sustained him now first the desire the pull the trigger, for the firing pin to strike the powder, for the spark to light and for that god-awful blaze that lit up with that plane to finally subside. He didn’t pull the trigger and yet still, with Elizabeth’s worried gaze and the way Peter’s arm rested around his shoulder (awkward but comforting) the blaze is extinguished none the less.

Adler’s death is nearly anticlimactic: Neal is too occupied by the art burning within the warehouse to pay much attention to anything else, as priceless beauty is lost to ash. 

Then Moz pulls the rug out from beneath him, and he learns it was his own art burning. He is not sure how to feel about this. Some had been idle doodles- others: the ocean the exact blue of Kate’s eyes, the glass reflecting sirens in red and blue- had been small pieces of his soul, transcribed onto canvas. But Moz moves on, so Neal does too. What was his soul worth, anyway?

Moz pressures him to leave New York, to cut ties, to burn Neal Caffrey the way he’d burned so many others. But something stops him, drags his feet. He is not sure when Neal Caffrey stopped feeling like a name picked at random, and more like his skin. 

He has barely made up his mind: Moz would be disappointed, but Neal would miss sunrises over the Chrysler building, all the wonderful stubborn people surrounding him, and Peter. Peter, with his stupid suits and his godforsaken devilled ham. Peter, who was home more than any house could ever be. For a few blessed hours, he is free in a way that is entirely new to him- still shackled, still tethered to that two-mile radius, but in a way he knows is entirely is of his own volition- he chooses to be here, to be the version of himself he could one day be proud of. He chooses to become Neal Caffrey. And god, what would it be like, to not run anymore? To know that the people around him, that might not know the name he was born with, accepted him none the less? 

He never gets the chance: there is Keller, and a gun pointed at Elizabeth, and betrayal, acidic guilt and that godawful look on Peter’s face, the one that says there might not be any coming back from this one. And that hurts- _god, _it hurts so much more than he ever thought it would- but Elizabeth is okay, Peter is okay, and if he says that enough times, he might believe he could be okay someday, too.__

____

____

He barely gets the chance to breathe before the breath is forced out of him again, at Peter’s grim nod, and he is running, fire at his heels, him and Moz and that stupid, stupid doll. Objectively, the island is nice. Sun, a name that only itches a little, and the freedom of anonymity. He aches. He is exhausted. He feels like cinders. Some days he misses the flames. Other times, he is only glad for the chance to stop running, even if the open sea feels a little like prison bars. He is a little empty, a little brittle: the light of a funeral pyre caught in a glass jar. 

When he sees Peter’s face, he can feel himself come to life, ashes kindled to fire, and before he has a chance to appreciate the warmth, he has returned to a labyrinth of skyscrapers and deductions and the quicksilver brilliance of their minds. He was relieved to know he still knew New York; the city’s pulse still matched his own. 

There is a tentativeness between him and Peter, remnants of scars and words that cannot be taken back: fists hitting flesh and words hitting home. Neal- and he was reclaiming that name: it was his, it was who he chose to be- makes his decision. No more fire, no more running, just life and the way he wants to live it. So Neal settles, and sets about mending the bridges he’d thought he burned. 

 

~~~~~

 

And in the end of the story, at the happily ever after, there is peace. Years tick by, smiles become easier and easier, and finally, the tracker around Neal’s ankle is removed. The morning the Marshalls are due, Moz appears in his living room, with Neal stood there in his dressing gown. There is no confusion: he knows exactly why Moz is here

“No, Moz. I don’t want it.”

“What? C’mon, of course you do.” He tries to push the plane ticket with a name that doesn’t belong to him, into Neal’s hand. Neal doesn’t take it.

“Moz, I’m serious.”

“Neal, you’ve wanted this for years. You’re free, you can spread your wings, take to the blue sky, etc etc. The suits can’t hold you anymore, The Man has nothing on you-“

“You can go. I know you want to, and I might join you, might travel a little. I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of Europe, maybe see Japan when the cherry tree’s blossom. But wherever I go, I’ll be going under my own name, and I’ll be coming back.”

He’s not lying. His skin itches a little, now that the anklet is gone: a part of him wants to run until his lungs give up, run and run and run and delight in the knowledge that there is no one behind him. But a bigger part of him is too much in love with this city, and all the people in it to ever want to leave it.

“I see.” Moz says, and Neal thinks he actually might, and despite it all, he feels a little guilty. 

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly. “But wherever you go, I’ll be here, and my front door will always be open. There will always be a decent glass of wine, and a home waiting for you if you want it.”

“I think… I think I’ll take you up on that, one day. But for now-“

“Yeah, I know.”

“Guess I’ll see you round, mon frère. Enjoy domesticity.”

“I will. Go say hi to the Eiffel Tower for me, but don’t forget my number, alright?”

“I can do that.”

He leaves, and Neal pours himself a very large glass of wine to try to push down the lump in the back of his throat. 

Later that evening, the department throws a stupid little party, with champagne in paper cups and a cake which Neal suspects Jones made himself. He throws back his champagne, loosens his tie, and laughs with the others. The back of his neck itches, and he glances up to see Peter looking- no, studying him. Like he’s afraid Neal is about to disappear. Neal smiles just for him, and goes to stand beside him.

“Big day, huh?” Peter says, a little awkwardly.

“Why?” Neal says, attempting nonchalance. “I mean, unless you’re firing me, and in that case I horrifically misjudged the atmosphere-“

Peter rolls his eyes but there’s a smile there he can’t quite hide. “Why do you think there’s this much champagne?”

Neal laughs, and pours himself another glass. 

“So you’re staying, then?” Peter asks, trying very hard for casual.

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Yeah, I think I’d miss the coffee too much if I left.”

“That’s good. El will be pleased.”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you want to come for dinner, anyway? El’s trying out this new weird Greek stuff, and I don’t want to suffer alone.”

“Well what sort of friend would be if I let that happen?”

And as they leave, talking and laughing, quiet and easy, Neal feels a fluttering of hope in his belly; for a life where he is comfortable in his own skin, and the feeling of fire in his veins is nothing more than the feeling of a distant dream, forgotten by the morning light.


End file.
